The Screever
by MarauderV
Summary: The triumph over Pulitzer has made Jack a hero, and given the children of New York a reason to believe and be heard. This is the intertwining story of a chimney sweep who aspires to be an artist.
1. Keepsake for the Hero

Papers flew everywhere as the crowd of children cheered in the square, hugging and laughing. Some were weeping with joy, and others simply ran about, shrieking happily. Girls and boys shouted from rooftops down to their comrades below, and newsies threw their caps in the air. Today was a day of gigantic victory for the child laborers of New York, for today, the Newsies strike had beaten Pulitzer, owner of _The World_.

Cara sat, legs crossed,on a garden wall raised up just high enough to see over the masses crowding the square. Her cap askew on her head andher tongue sticking out of her mouth ever so slightly as she sketched on her shabby newspaper canvas. She was capturing the scene of the square forever on that sheet. Her liberation day. The crowd parted, and Cara leaned over to see whatever caused the move. When she glimpsed Jack Kelly with his arm around a pretty girl, she immediately flipped to a new side of newspaper and began sketching frantically, looking up with her lopsided grin as he kissed the lucky dame. With the basic picture down, Cara began to add in the details; the image seemed frozen in her mind, like a photograph.

The charcoal blossomed over the page as the crowd gradually began to disperse around Cara, though she didn't take much notice. The cheers were now a dim roar to her ears; she was focused only on the drawing in front of her. Soon, only Jack and a few of his friends remained in the square, talking and laughing. Racetrack Higgins, a friend of Cara's, spotted her from the ground and waved up to her.

"Ahoy up there, kid," he called with a smirk. "Whatcha workin' on this time, eh?" He took another puff on his cigarette and stuffed his other hand in his pocket. The others stopped, nodding up and waving at Cara, who tucked the charcoal behind her ear and returned the gesture.

"Just a little keepsake for the 'ero," she replied cheekily. Jack raised his eyebrows, and the girl he had kissed (who was now under his arm) giggled.

"Yeah, and what might that be, Picasso?" he asked.

"I think the lady knows, Jackie boy," Cara replied, folding the cover over her makeshift portfolio and smirking.

Jack gave the girl an inquisitive, dashing look, and she whispered something to him, chuckling. Jack blushed immediately, and Cara laughed for a moment before realizing that he was running up the ladder after her. She shrieked as he grabbed her from behind, pinning her arms to her sides as the boys and girl below laughed uproariously.

"Lemme see it," he said into her ear, his fingers threatening to tickle. "Lemme _see_ it, Cara!"

"All right, all right!" she gasped. "Lemme go first. Your clumsy newsie hands'll rip the bleeding paper."

Watching her closely, Jack let go and the young artist pulled back the sheets of newspaper to reveal her latest work-in-progress. Jack grinned and studied the drawing. He cocked his head a little, as if considering something, and then nodded.

"Nice job, for an amateur," he said, smirking. Cara raised an eyebrow at him and nodded at the brunette below them.

"What's 'er name, Cowboy?"

He gave the girl a soft look. "Sarah."

"She looks like a nice girl. Maybe she'll calm you down a bit, Jack, hm?" said Cara, smiling.

"Yeah, maybe. Why don't you come down to the restaurant with us, huh? Denton's buyin' again, kindofa congratulations thing," he said, tugging on her sleeve. Cara considered him for a moment, and then nodded.

"Sure. Anytime I kin get a coke in good comp'ny," she grinned. The newsie and the screever jumped down from the wall and joined the small group. Racetrack, always the gentleman, offered his arm to Cara, who took it gallantly. Jack made some quick introductions.

"Dave, Les, Sarah, this is Cara O'Conner, amateur screever and chimney sweep extraordinaire. Cara, this is Dave, Les, and Sarah. Dave was the brains of this 'ere operation, he's a walkin' mouth," said Jack, grinning.

"Nice to meet you," Dave shook her hand with a smile, and felt the callouses on her willowy hands. "You're an artist?"

"A screever, really. Earns me a few coppa's and silva's a day along with sweepin'," she replied jovially. "You're a bit of a new newsie, huh? Yo' brotha too?"

"Yes'm. I sell the most papes," Les squeaked. Jack laughed and ruffled his hair, and lead the way down to the corner diner, where a crowd of children and teens were waiting for them, bursting into applause when Jack entered. He raised his hands for quiet.

"Everythin's gonna change now," he said. "Now I ain't sayin', I ain't sayin' life's gonna be easy. I'm sayin' you'll still have your jobs and you'll be able to eat properly. And you'll be taken seriously. We got voices now! We ain't nuthin'!"

Cara found herself cheering along with the others, and sat down to a cold glass of Coke and good company. After awhile she found Denton, the news reporter, peering over her shoulder at her drawings, which she was fidgeting with.

"Those yours?" he asked lightly.

"Y-Yessah," she replied. "I'm still workin' on 'em."

"I can see that. You've got quick the talent there. You should think about selling those," he said, nodding.

Cara shook her head. "A little too early methinks, sah. I'll stick to sweepin'," she said confidently. She drank the rest of her coke and cast an eye to the window. The sky had begun to darken, and Cara had a bit of a walk to the projects where she lived. She replaced her worn cap to its rightful place atop her cropped hair, tucking her portfolio under one arm. Jack caught her eye as she was about to get up to leave, and he gave her a hug, beaming.

"Thanks for coming today, to support us, yah know. I really appreciated it," he said. "Be careful walkin' home, there's all types about, yah know."

Cara smiled. "I kin handle myself, Jack Kelly. You worry about walkin' _your_ lady home, you hear?"

Jack nodded, throwing her a salute. Racetrack clapped Cara on the back, and then she took her leave. The streets and buildings still seemed to be echoing with the cries from earlier that day, and Cara smiled again. They had done a good thing today, a tremendous thing. They had beaten _The Man_. Not terribly, of course, but enough to get them noticed, for people to realize that children and teenagers were people too. Being an orphan and a girl, Cara was on the lowest rung on the New York social ladder. But she didn't mind so much; she had her art and her charcoal behind her ear, and when she was sweeping she had free range of the rooftops. No adults to boss her around, for the most part. But being a screever was her favorite job. She didn't have a boss at all, and only drew what she wanted to, when she wanted to. No one skimped her wages or refused her pay, people simply tossed her a few pennies or nickels, and if she was lucky, dimes and even a quarter or two. Yes, being a screever was Cara's miniature haven.

As she approached the projects, she heard the familiar sounds of babies crying and parents yelling, and the audible squabble of siblings resonating from the dreary stone buildings. She lived in a modest girls' home which contained bunks, sinks, and running water along with its occupants. The rest of the girls wore rough cotton smocks or dresses and worked in sewing or cotton factories; Cara was the only one who wore breeches more often than not, and who worked outside. Unfortunately this distanced her from the rest of the girls, and as a result, she had few friends amongst her housemates. Cara was friends with newsies, shoeshiners, and of course, other chimney sweeps of New York. She came home each day dirtied with soot and smudged with mud and charcoal from screeving. Cara always washed herself, but her comfort with her uncleanliness bothered the other girls and the Madam of the girls' home. So Cara had learned how to get along without friends in parts of her life.

It hadn't bothered her much.

Cara placed her papers and charcoal beneath her mattress and washed her face and arms, scrubbing well behind her ears to rid them of the charcoal. She brushed her cropped hair, letting the ends tickle halfway down her neck. Cara climbed into bed, touching the only item of jewelry she owned: an unadorned, silver cross necklace. Cara was a Roman Catholic, as were most of the girls in the projects. She said her prayers every night and went to church every Sunday she could manage. All in all, Cara was a bit of a working-class oddball. But all the same, she didn't mind. Cara lay down and whispered a Hail Mary to her pillow in the darkness, and promptly fell asleep to the soft lull of excited whispers about the day's events.


	2. Feel any different?

The morning came warm, with a hint of humidity that told New York to dress lightly. It was the end of August, and each day in New York was hot, sticky, and nearly unbearable for workers. Those in the factories had it the worst; people died from heatstroke all the time, working away at the machines and assembly lines. Those outside got an occasional breeze, but not much else.

Cara wrinkled her nose as Madam Brently patted her cheek sharply to wake her. The middle-aged woman was severe-looking and strict, but not overbearingly so. Cara liked her, just not the way she chose to wake the girls up in the morning. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, Cara absently pushed her hair about until it settled to her liking, and hopped off the bed. She laced up her worn, scuffed black boots and pulled on her suspenders and short-sleeved button-down, plucking a blue ribbon barrette from beneath her pillow and clipping it into her hair for a nicer touch.

Tucking her scant pieces of colored chalk into her pockets and tucking her charcoal behind her left ear, Cara bid Madam Brently farewell and went on her way to the sweep's supply, which was where she obtained her brushes and sheets for chimney sweeping. By the time she arrived, there was already a line of five other sweeps waiting for their gear for the day, and Cara shoved her hands in her pockets, sufficing to twist her chalk pieces to pass the time. The sun came up completely, blanketing the sky in a brilliant orange, peach, and pink coat of color. Cara's fingers twitched involuntarily. What she wouldn't give for a proper canvas and set of paints at this very moment. She stood, observing the skyline, mesmerized, until a sharp nudge in the back made her start.

"Oy, line's movin'," said the sweep behind her, a tall, slim boy with dirty blonde hair. He jerked his chin up, motioning for Cara to move forward, which she did without much more than a dirty look to the offender.

"Where'm I goin' today, boss?" she asked as she set her brushes over her shoulder and donned her sheet pack.

"Harlem. Three stopped chimneys there, and then another four in south Harlem. Be quick about it, I've been getting' complaints," the Boss barked roughly. She frowned and stepped aside.

"Certainly not about me, sah," she said doubtfully, smirking as she turned and headed towards the streets of Harlem.

The streets were buzzing with activity by the time Cara reached her first address. She stared up at the three-story monstrosity of an 'apartment' and rang the bell, gulping down her apprehension. A plump, gray-haired housekeeper came to the door and at first looked quite taken aback, until she spied the sweeping brushes on Cara's shoulder.

"Pardon me, ma'am," she said. "But I'm told there's a chimney needs unstoppin' 'ere?"

The housekeeper studied Cara and then nodded. "Follow me," she said in a thick Irish brogue. Cara smiled.

"In 'ere, and don't make a mess," the maid fussed, waving her pudgy hands about at the chintz and oriental rugs. "My mistress would be mighty displeased should she find any soot 'ereabouts."

"That's what me sheets are for, marm," Cara replied cheerfully, flinging the first sheet over the couch directly in front of the fireplace. She continued until all furniture and carpeting within ten feet of the fireplace was covered, and then she opened the fire grating to peer up the flu. She couldn't see a spot of daylight, and she sighed. Small as she was, being a girl, she could fit up most chimneys, but it didn't mean she was thrilled to do it. Climbing was all right, but not when you were pumping a brush up and down whilst soot and clods of birds' nests were raining down upon your bonce. Cara selected one of her brushes and poked it up the floo, standing directly inside the fireplace now. She pushed upwards, rotating clockwise to loosen the soot and ash trapped in the small gap above. A few birds chirped indignantly and flew out the top of the chimney as soot showered Cara's head. Looking up again, Cara realized she'd have to climb to reach the topmost blockage.

With a sigh, she plucked the strands of hair from her face and began to push herself up the chimney, sticking the brush ahead of her to knock free the soot and dirt. She blinked as soot threatened to get in her eyes. It was going to be a long day.

After her 4th house, Cara had a bit of a ways to walk to her next house, one even larger than the last. Did these people even know what a normal flat looked like? She doubted it. Never mind that their neighbors across the street were nearly destitute, as long as they kept out of the way. Along her path, Cara met a few Harlem newsies, who politely tipped their hats as they spied the bow in her hair. She spoke briefly with one of them.

"Feel any different?" she asked, winking.

The newsie thumbed his tattered lapel and thought about it. "Not much, just a lotta gents askin' me the same thing, miss," he replied. " 'Ow about yew?"

"I'm doin' seven chimneys 'stead of sixteen today, pal. That feels different to me," she replied. She handed him two bits and took a paper. He tipped his cap and continued his sales, shouting the usual "Extra, extra!" with a few embellishments here and there as Cara rounded the corner and knocked on the door of her next house.

A young man answered the door and invited her in immediately with a smile. He pointed her to the direction of the main floor chimney and left her to her work. The chimney really only needed a sound sweeping and less of an unblocking than most chimneys, and Cara was done within the hour.

"Excuse me sah, there anythin' else you want me to be doin'?" she called, leaning her head around the double-door entrance to the sitting room. There was silence for a few seconds, and then the young man came hurrying down the stairs.

"Actually, if it isn't too much trouble, my niece's room has been a bit stuffy these past few days, could you look at the shaft of her fireplace?" he asked sincerely. Cara bit back a snort of laughter and nodded her head.

"I'm a bit sooty, should I clean up foist, mista?" she asked.

"Oh, no no, that's what maids are for, dear girl. Please, up this way," he replied, showing her up the stairs and into a lavender-colored room with a miniature fireplace and chimney to match. Cara stuck her head up the small shaft and peered into the dark.

"You've got a boid in here, mista. I kin knock it loose easy," she said, and delivered a sharp tap to the feathered nest blocking the shaft. The occupant squawked noisily and vacated quickly as the nest toppled in a twiggy lump onto the grating.

"That all for yew, govna?" she asked, leaning on her flu brush.

"Yes, yes that's all," he said, seeming slightly distracted. He hesitated, and then said, "My dear, would you like something to eat? You look quite underfed."

"You ain't from around here, are you?" she said, raising one eyebrow.

"No, I'm from England, but why should that matter?" he said, beginning to walk down the hallway.

"Just makes you nicer'n everyone else, tha's why," she replied. "But I wouldn't say no to a bit of sup."

"Oh good. Come right in here. There's plenty of leftovers. Too much for us, I daresay," he said, placing three platters of sausage, crackers, and fruit on the table for Cara. Her eyes became round and glassy, and she sat down quite readily and began to eat.

"Beggin' your pardon, mista, but, why're you feedin' me?" she asked after swallowing her third piece of sausage.

"I know what it's like to be hungry," he replied. "Are you homeless, child?"

"I ain't a bum, if that's what you're askin'," she said quickly, furrowing her eyebrows.

"Oh no, that's not what I meant. Do you have a place to live?" he asked. "Blankets, a bed? A roof over your head?"

"I live in a girls' home in Southside. It's betta than a box," she said. "Madam ain't mean much, and I don't gots to pay. Pretty nice deal."

"Yes, those public homes were quite a good idea," said the man. "I've forgotten my manners. I am Adam Trenton. Might I ask your name?"

"I'm Cara O'Conner. Pleasure," she said, pocketing half a dozen crackers and a few slices of sausage, along with an apple in her pack. "Thanks for the food mista, but I still gots a few chimneys to go, so could I get me pay?"

"Of course. Here you are," he said kindly, placing a few silver coins in her hand. He held out a quarter. "And this is for you. Not extra pay, but for you. Save it or spend it if you wish, Cara O'Conner. It was nice meeting you. Don't hesitate to drop by if you're in the area, yes?"

"Sure mista. Thanks!" she said, and packed up her sheets. Adam Trenton let her out the door with a smile, and she stepped off his porch feeling full for the first time in her life.


	3. It's October, after all

Mr. Trenton had turned out to be one of Cara's best customers; he asked her employer specifically for her twice a month, paid her extra, and fed her on occasion. After a few visits, Cara couldn't help but wonder if this apparent do-gooder was hoping for something more in return than just conversation and chimney sweeping, but Trenton never gave any type of sinister impression, and so Cara could only conclude that he was simply a wealthy, generous man. And there was certainly no harm in that, was there?

The newsies fared well adjusting after the strike; the deal that had settled the strike was that the newsies still paid 60 cents per one hundred papes, but they could sell back the papes they didn't hawk each day to retain what little money they had. This had pacified the angry boys, and had so far kept them under control. Cara had thought about adding an evening stint of selling papers to earn some extra money, but the later editions of the paper were already claimed by current Newsies, and newcomers were rarely welcomed. So she stuck to her screeving for extra cash, and collected a couple coppers and the occasional silver every other day. Weeks went by and Cara noticed the leaves beginning to change. She could hardly believe it was October already. And with October came cooler weather, and scarcer food. And even worse, less people on the streets to see Cara's screever works of art. She balked at stopping, even with the threat of cold and snow for no profit. So as autumn began, so did an inward battle of Cara's decisions. However, while her screeving may bring in less, with colder weather came a higher use of chimneys, which meant more work for chimney sweeps.

As Cara chewed on her morning bread, she frowned, thinking about this. While being a chimney sweep was probably the best job she could ever ask for as a minor worker (even at 16, she was still considered minor), it wasn't always pleasant when one was trudging about in the snow and constantly going in and out of warm houses to unstop their bleeding chimney. Cara swallowed and lifted her brushes to her shoulder, looking down at the scrawled note containing her addresses for the day. A chilly wind swept across the street, still shadowy and murky. A poster skittered across the cobblestones and settle against Cara's boot. She leaned and picked it up, peering at the picture. A smile curled on her pale features. On the poster was a picture of a beautiful woman dressed in a mock-Victorian outfit, her arms spread wide as she sang. Her hair was curly and red (though you couldn't see it in the black and white photo) and below the photo, in large, winding script, was the name MEDDA, THE SWEDISH MEADOWLARK. The poster went on to say that all newsies, sweeps, and any other child workers were invited for a benefit performance at the Irving Theatre that night. Cara stuck the poster in her pocket and did a small dance on the sidewalk, giggling. She, like any other sophisticated child of the age, loved Vaudeville shows. She could very easily remember using her supper money to see her first few shows; a free one was one heck of a boon. She clicked her heels together and set off down the street, eager to finish her day's work and draw a little before she departed for Irving Theatre.

* * *

It wasn't the first time that Cara had found herself stuck in a chimney. Or rather, her foot was stuck in a bleeding crack in the brick. It also wasn't the worst time, but it was still annoying. Muttering curses under her breath, the sweep tugged on her foot while still trying to balance herself, placed as she was a third of the way up the chimney stack. Wrinkling her nose, she grunted and pulled again, but to no avail. Leaning back against the chimney wall, she untied her boot and pulled her foot out. Suddenly realizing her mistake, she grabbed at the walls but ended up on her rump in the ashes. Coughing and spluttering, she staggered out of the fireplace, blackened with soot and her hair in her eyes. Cara pushed her hair away so she could see, and wobbled a bit before sitting down with a frown on her face.

"What'n the world are you _doing?"_ said a voice from behind her. Cara turned her head a little to see the butler of the house staring at her.

"I got a bit stuck," she replied, blinking soot from her eyelashes.

"And you've made quite a mess of it!"

Cara rolled her eyes. "That's what the sheets are for, sah. I don't usually do this, just so y'know. Me boot's stuck, that's all."

"Well hurry up. The master will be home within the hour," said the butler snootily, and marched back to where he came from.

"Hmph." Cara stood back up and stuck her head inside the chimney stack, spying her boot rather quickly, and snatching it decisively from its resting place. She dumped the soot and debris from the inside and put it back on, lacing it quickly. Cara looked around and sighed. She had a bit of cleaning to do. Thank God the chimney was done.

At the next house the maid actually screamed when she opened the door to a charcoal-black faced Cara, who stood and took the hysterics, ridiculous as they were. The children of the house, however, had no qualms about letting Cara in, since they were used to getting dirty. The job went quickly, and the children babbled the entirety of the time it took for Cara to clean out the chimney. They paid her happily and asked her to come and play again sometime.

Skipping lightly down the street, Cara swung her brushes in circles, humming what she could remember of her last Vaudeville show and smiling through her sooty face. People stared, but it was nothing out of the ordinary. She passed a line of blackfoot boys, and they turned to glare at her; she frowned ever so slightly. Blackfoot boys worked all day shining shoes for next to nothing, and they hadn't received much compensation or labor relief since the strike, and nobody really seemed to notice. Not that it was her job to.

Cara spied a carriage on her side of the street and looked about for police. Spotting none, she darted out onto the cobblestones and caught a hold of the back of the carriage, tipping her hat at the staring gentlemen on the sidewalk. A few of the ladies covered their mouths and tut-tutted, and Cara laughed, despite herself. She'd never be like them if she could help it. She couldn't stand the idea of corset for one thing, and she had a certain dislike for dresses. She'd wear them, but she preferred trousers or breeches when it came right down to it.

A raindrop landed squarely on her nose, and Cara frowned up at the sky, which had begun to turn an ashen-gray color and bunch up with clouds. Yes, it was October, after all. She tucked her hair behind her ears and fixed her cap a little tighter over her head. Luckily, only a few drops peppered the ground, and the clouds remained full and sagging, waiting to dump their contents at a different time, or perhaps on a different part of town. Cara jumped off the carriage and blew a kiss to the sky; she still had a dry sidewalk to draw on, and she set to it with zeal. Scenes blossomed from her meager pieces of colored chalk, from summer in Central Park, to a bright day in the harbor, and another of some fictional fair she'd never been to in her life, but there it was, plain as day. She was starting her fourth drawing, one of a little girl in a blue dress, when she heard the first clink of change. She looked up, hair falling her face as she beamed at the young woman.

"Thank yah, miss," she said, and went back to her work. A few people stopped to watch her work, a few more threw in coins, and Cara spotted a large, silver coin in her hat after another twenty minutes. She smiled and kept drawing diligently, looking up every so often if she ran out of ideas. The girl in the blue dress now had auburn hair, about the same color as Cara's own hair, and a lovely little bow on her plait. The pinging sound of bouncing chalk caused Cara to jerk up from her work, looking about for the chalk in question. A man wearing shiny black shoes and carrying a cane had kicked the chalk out of his way, causing it to land about five feet away and out of Cara's reach. Knowing better, Cara said nothing, and picked up her cap of coins, keeping it tight in her hand as she retrieved her chalk, lest it be stolen. She placed the chalk back into line and continued her now-scuffed sketch. This like this happened often, and no longer bothered her. Another plink announced another happy customer, and Cara flashed another smile in return.


	4. Vaudeville

**So hopefully I haven't lost all my readers! I'm sorry it's taken me so long to update, but school really got out of control. Well, now it's summer and I'm back to writing, so hopefully I'll get a couple chapters up this month & next. Thanks ladies & gents! On with the show.**

* * *

Her fingers were thoroughly dirtied by the chalk once she had finished her work. Cara sat back and crossed her legs, sighing contentedly at the menagerie of scenes before her. A few more coins fell into her cap before she retrieved it, securing the coins inside a pouch before placing it safely in her pocket. When one was poor, one guarded every penny with a level of ferocity most adults would regard with reproach. But every penny meant another day with bread, another day without an empty stomach, and at 17, Cara had quite an appetite. By this time the sun had begun its descent to the evening horizon, and Cara had to make her way across town to the theatre for the vaudeville show. She jumped onto the back of a trolley and rode most of the way until the conductor found her and kicked her off rather unceremoniously, shouting. She threw him a far-from-friendly hand gesture and dashed off down the street before he could do anything else.

Cara bought a bread-wrapped meatball just before entering the theatre, her stomach growling from a foodless day. She entered a line of blackfoot boys streaming into the theatre and was soon basking in the glowing light of the Irving theatre. Boys were singing and girls were chatting all about. Newsies were hanging off railings, and Cara soon spotted her fellow chimney sweeps; soot-faced and beaming, they were in the highest seats, many sitting precariously on railings, posts, and some even dangling off of curtain-pulls. Cara found a familiar face.

"Ahoy up there!" she called up to a blonde girl who was dangling her feet as she straddled a high railing. The girl looked down and grinned.

"And you, Cara O'Conner! Get up here!" she shouted back.

Cara jogged up the steps and embraced the girl, planting an enthusiastic kiss on her cheek. She was Meghan Wintry, a sweep and one of Cara's best friends. She worked on the other side of town, but she and Cara occasionally crossed paths. They had met at a young age in an orphanage and bonded quickly. They were separated when they were moved to separate housing developments, but they managed to keep in touch, mostly through newsies and messenger boys throughout the cities. Now they were reunited, in this theatre filled with shouting children and teens, snippets of song and a barely audible musical track playing somewhere in the background. All at once, a stage light went on and the rest of the lights were killed. Playful screams ensued, and Cara stared at the stage in anticipation. Medda stepped out, and the theatre erupted. Boys whistled and hollered, and girls shrieked, clapping. Medda was the favorite of every working child; she had sheltered their rallies and supported their cause when the rest of New York would not. She risked her business and her theatre by allowing the newsies to gather there. They owed her loyalty, which they gladly gave without question. She waved for silence.

"Thank you, thank you all!" she cried, smiling beautifully. "Where's Jack Kelly?"

She made a show of peering through the crowd as the children whistled and cheered; Jack jumped up onto the stage with Medda, giving her a kiss on the cheek and waving to the crowd. In the following silence, Cara gave a particularly loud wolf whistle, to the amusement of the juvenile gathering.

"I'm glad to have you all here for this show, and I'm especially glad that Jack can be here with you," said Medda. "You pulled off something no one's ever done before, not like you. You made the mountains bend!"

At this, the children screamed triumphantly.

"I congratulate you," said Medda. Jack whistled, receiving appreciative laughter. "And now, on with the show!"

Cara and Meghan sang along with the raucous crowd, swaying and dancing when they felt the need. It was quite a sight, any adult would have been astounded, perhaps impressed, and maybe even enlightened. Music and theatre filled the bellies of these children like food; many would easily sacrifice their dinner to see a vaudeville show. A free one was a blessing from God. As the show dwindled to its end, Cara glanced around, finding faces in the sea of caps and dusty heads. Jack, Dave, Les, Racetrack, Crutchy, all of Jack's crowd was there, along with other newsie sectors. Spot's boys were there, and groups from Harlem and the Bronx. Sweeps from all over, dirty blackfoot boys, factory and serving girls, and even a few dock children had made their way to the Irving theatre. Cara looked again at Jack's group, and noted curiously that Sarah was nowhere to be found. Perhaps she was at home, or maybe working at this hour. Cara shrugged to herself.

"Let's get down to the newsies before things really get crazy," said Meghan, jumping over the railing, snatching a curtain cord like a monkey on a vine. Cara laughed and followed suit, landing loudly on the stage with enthusiastic yells and surprising the group of newsies at the stage edge. Jack saw them and laughed in surprise. Cara leapt at him and was quickly tackled by a bunch of rowdy newsies, as was Meghan.

"How ya been Cowboy?" roared Cara over the raucous noise. She laughed as Racetrack tickled her from behind.

"Pretty damn good, Cara, how's chimneys?" said Jack. Les clambered up and made himself comfortable on Jack's shoulders.

"Dirty," she said, wrinkling her nose. Meghan grabbed her, faking panic as Mush gave her a bear-hug.

"How 'bout we get outside? It's a madhouse in here!" she said, laughing.

"Sure!" Jack said. He grabbed Racetrack by the collar and gave Les back to David. They followed the girls out into the street, lit dimly by the yellowish street lamps. Meghan and Cara swung each other around, shrieking with laughter, caught up in the hilarity of life for those few moments. They finally digressed and returned to the group of adolescent newsies. Except for Les, the boys were all above 16 years of age, and constantly vying for female attention. Speaking of which –

"Oy, Cowboy, where's Sarah?" said Cara, wrapping herself awkwardly around Meghan, who giggled.

"Oh, she um, she's at school, y'know, college," he said uncomfortably. "It's kinda far so we figured we should break it off. That was a coupla months ago."

"My sincerest condolences," said Cara, bowing in the pretense of holding a top hat and cane.

"Oh, go on, Jack, you know you've got half o' New York's finest ladyfolk on their knees," said Meghan dramatically, batting her eyelashes. Jack burst out laughing and strutted a bit, to the delight of the small crowd.

The group settled down and walked down the street leisurely; Cara was arm in arm with Racetrack and Jack, whereas Meghan had taken up a comfortable spot between Dave and Mush. Occasionally the girls threw glances at one another, grinning.

"So Cara, you get a fella yet?" said Racetrack, taking a drag on his cigarette and offering it to her. She took it and held it thoughtfully for a moment before shaking her head.

"Nope."

"Aw, why not? It'd do yah good," said Racetrack, sounding more like a middle-aged uncle than a teenage boy.

"And it'd do you good tah have a lady around you a bit mo' often, too, Race, but I see you ain't rushin' about to find one either," she replied cheekily. "Sides, when would I have time for a fella when half the day I'm stuck down a chimney, huh Race?"

"Aw, I dunno, some guys like a dirty gel," said Racetrack, and Cara punched him, chasing him down the street half a block before turning around and returning to the company.

They came to a park, small and out of the way, but pretty nonetheless. The boys set immediately to climbing the trees; they were, after all, boys. Cara sat down on the sidewalk and began to draw the night sky, shading the moon with yellow and white, her tongue protruding from her mouth slightly. Jack watched her from a short distance away. Crutchy nudged him.

"She's a sweet kid, ain't she, Jack?" he said, smiling. "Kinda floatin' on a cloud all the time, huh?"

"Yeah, that's right," said Jack, clapping Crutchy on the shoulder. "How you doin' with the papes lately?"

"Oh, I'm always doin' good, Jack," he said happily. "Anybody'll buy from a cripple!"

Jack and Crutchy laughed about this for a few minutes, and Jack strolled over to peer at Cara's work over her shoulder. The night sky was complete, and Cara sat back to admire it.

"Nice. Y'know you're one o' the only people I know who kin draw like that, Cara," he said.

"Are you givin' me a compliment or are you kissin' up, Jack Kelly?" Cara scrutinized him with a jaunty eye.

He leaned over. "Nah, I only do one kind a' kissin'."

"Jack Kelly, mind yo' hands!" Racetrack called from a tree across the pavilion. "Keep them paws away or I'll deck yah meself!"

"You're a foot and a half shortah than me, Race, don't kid yehself," Jack called back, offering a hand to Cara as she stood up.

"I've gotta get back home, Trenton wants me to clean all of 'is chimneys 'cause he's got guests comin'," she said, brushing her hands off and tucking her chalk safely in her pockets. "Meg, you comin' or what?"

"Race 'n Mush are gonna walk me home, love, I'll see you tomorrow maybe?" Meghan replied as she swung down from a tree, received happily by Mush's strong arms.

"All right." Cara straightened her cap and winked at Jack. "I'll see you around, Kelly."

Jack hesitated, and then matched her stride. "I'll walk yah home, it's late, and you've got a ways to go," he said, tucking his hands in his pockets.

Cara smiled. "Thanks, Jack."

They continued for another block or two in silence, and then Cara spoke up again.

"You ever think about what you're gonna do after you can't work as a newsie no more?" she said. "I mean, you're almost twenty, Jack."

"I figure maybe I'll go into management or somethin' like that. I'd like to stay around here for awhile yet anyhow. I mean, I wanna see the world and all that but I gotta make a steady livin' around here before I can hop a train," he replied, looking up at the stars. "I wanna see what the sky looks like from Santa Fe, yah know?"

"Yeah," said Cara. "I'd like something knew to draw, even paint! Gawd, if I had my own paint set I could really do somethin'. You know, Denton said I should sell my stuff. If he could sell it for me, I might do good, but nobody'll buy from a girl sweep."

"I think you could really do good," said Jack softly. "I mean, we're kinda cursed, yah know? Street rats, that's all we'll ever amount to. But the strike got me thinkin'. I mean, if we could do that together, there's gotta be more."

"If we're together," said Cara. "Not many of the sweeps are up to any more strikes, I can tell you that."

"Naw, no more strikes. I just mean, lookin' out for each otha, and takin' care of everyone," said Jack. "Instead 'a arguin' over turf and crap like that. Take some damn responsibility."

"You tell them that and they'll do it," said Cara wistfully. "Dunno about Spot Conlon, but…"

She grinned, as did Jack. "Yeah well, we gotta watch out for somethin', don't we?"

"Or someone," said Jack, nodding. "There's always gonna be troublemakers, I should know, I am one."

"Not you, Jack Kelly, neva!" said Cara with a whoop, jumping gaily. "We've all got our black marks."

"True enough."

A feminine giggle drifted out through an open window. Cara blanched and Jack looked a bit dazed.

"It's Octoba, ain't it cold out? Doesn't it seem cold to you, Cara?" he said. "And they got a window open!"

Cara grabbed his arm and ducked out of the street, giggling. "Well, don't shout! There's a lady's house about a block from here, Jack. The girls around here ain't too savory."

Jack frowned. "You know 'em?"

"Yeah, some of 'em. I don't like what they do, but it's how they live, I can't argue with that," she said, shrugging. "You think newsies got it bad sometimes, these girls have it worse all the time."

Jack sighed. "I guess I never really thought about it that way. They couldn't really strike, could they?"

"Nope." Cara shook her head and stood under the streetlight outside her group home. "But then again, why would they? They'll always have a business. I gotta go, Jack. Madam Brently won't be too pleased."

"Aw, let the old bat wait," said Jack, waving carelessly. "Good to see you again, Cara."

"And you, as always, Jack. Let me know about that management position you're bankin' for," she said with a smirk.

Jack smiled, but didn't say anything. Cara gave him a kiss on the cheek and found herself wrapped up in Jack's arms. She smiled into his shoulder and gave him a warm hug.

"Thanks, Jackie boy."


	5. Let Her Decide

Cara woke up a little later than she would have liked, and washed her face faster than normal so that she could make it to Adam Trenton's on time; he was the only customer she actually liked. He paid well, fed her, and actually talked to her like a decent man. She waited nervously on his doorstep, brushes and brooms on one shoulder, sheets tucked under the other arm. Her cap was a little over her face when a maid answered the door.

"Ah, come right in, I'll let Mister Trenton know you're here," she said cheerfully, waving the young sweep inside.

Cara shrugged as she always did when addressed in such a way. "Really no need for that, ma'am, I'm gonna be up the chimneys most of the time, won't be much use for talkin'," she said briskly, flinging her sheets out with a flick of her wrist. Once Cara stuck her head up the chimney, she wondered why Trenton had even asked her to come; his chimneys barely needed a dusting each, much less an actual cleaning. After about an hour, Cara was on her last chimney and extremely curious, due to the fact that Trenton's guests were due to arrive within minutes, and he hadn't asked her to leave yet. When she was rolling up her sheets, the doorbell rang, and the maid let a group of a half dozen well-dressed, middle-aged businessmen into the foyer. Cara was about to go look for the maid when Adam Trenton himself turned the corner, looking around. He smiled brightly when he saw her.

"Ah, you're done! Come now, there are some men I'd like you to meet," he said, ushering her in front of him. She went reluctantly.

"Men? For what, Mistah Trenton, I mean, I'm finished…"

"Nonsense, what do you think I asked you here for in the first place, dear girl!" he said as they came into the dining room, where the five men sat, talking amiably amongst one another. They stared at Cara.

"Gentlemen, this is Cara O'Conner. She's the girl I've been talking to you about, amongst other things," he said.

Cara immediately turned to stare at Trenton. "Talkin' to them, about me? Now what exactly is this?"

"Trenton, she's hired help," said one of the men, chuckling.

Cara's head whipped about. She scowled at the man. "Beg yeh pahdon?"

"That may be so, but she's a brilliant girl," said Trenton. "As well as one of the best chimney sweeps I've ever had."

"So let her be a sweep, Adam," said an older man, his voice almost kindly. Cara's nose twitched and she raised her chin slightly, looking at the man. He looked back, light blue eyes softening on her.

"While I love bein' talked about, sahs," Cara said cautiously. "Would you mind terribly tellin' me what in the blinkin' hell is goin' on?"

Some of the men laughed, while others looked surprised. Trenton laughed, and Cara took her cap off, still confused.

"My dear, we're from California, we're on a private education board there. Adam here seems to believe you possess quite a brain and that you deserve to be generously schooled," said the blue-eyed man.

Cara straightened slightly, eyes widening. "California? Out west?"

The man nodded.

"Adam tells us that you have an excellent talent for art," said another man. "He says that your works would sell if they only had a public viewing."

Cara felt herself blush and looked at Trenton. He smiled.

"I liked you from the beginning, Cara. I've told you that," he said, placing a hand on her shoulder warmly. "You deserve a better life than this."

"We'd like to see some of your artwork, if you wouldn't mind?" said the blue-eyed man.

"Well, sah, y'see, most of my work is on sidewalks and streets," she replied. "I've got a small portfolio but it ain't here."

"Well then, let's go see these street works, and pick up your portfolio along the way. Maybe you can show us some of you talent as well," said Trenton happily. The other men nodded. Cara was shocked. These were businessmen; given the chance, most kids would try and pick their pockets. And businessmen weren't supposed to care about street kids, much less girls. Maybe Jack was right. Maybe the west was different; maybe it was free.

It was quite a strange group; a scuffed, soot-covered girl with her cap askew leading half a dozen well-dressed, middle-aged men down the street, talking animatedly with the youngest of the men, Adam Trenton. At the girls' home Cara picked up her portfolio and tapped her chin, wondering where her latest drawing might've been. Or what was left of it. Then she remembered.

"Last night, at the park by the theatre," she said suddenly. "I drew the sky. Might not be the best, but it's somethin'. And yous can sit'n stare at my stuff."

Trenton smiled and patted her shoulder. "Sounds good. Should we get a trolley?"

"Sure, but it might be a bit hard fer alla you to hop a train," she said, grinning lopsidedly.

"Oh, don't worry," said Trenton, laughing. "I'll pay."

So they took a trolley, and for the first time in her life, Cara didn't have to ride on the back to avoid being caught. It felt strange, nestled betwixt these rich men. She was surprised at how nonchalant they all were behaving, even though she was leading them around New York City by the nose. The arrived at the park and Cara was pleased to discover that her drawing was mostly intact. The men gathered around it, some holding her other pieces and others nodding or not doing much at all. Cara couldn't stand around, and she knew she couldn't fidget, so she walked around the park, meandering on the grass and ignoring the signs.

Trenton watched her go, noting her wayward footsteps and her hands stuffed deep in her worn pockets. He looked at the bearded man beside him. "She deserves better than this, Roger," he said, frowning.

"Everyone in her position deserves better, Adam," he said kindly. "Had I the power I'd whisk every child off the street. I could never imagine my own child having to fend for themselves. That's what so tragic about this situation."

"She's good, Adam, but she's no prodigy," said a thin man with glasses. His name was Timothy Morris.

"Enough for a scholarship for her art alone?" Trenton asked hopefully.

Morris frowned. "There are other more worthy candidates."

"With money to pay their own way, Timothy," said Roger reproachfully. "Why not give her a chance? She's got nothing here. The school could really be good for her."

"She's not my daughter," said Morris. "She's not yours either. How could you know what is good for her?"

Trenton frowned a little. Morris had a point. He glanced back at where Cara was now sitting, holding her cap in her hands. He looked at Roger, who was gazing at the chalked night sky.

"She gave me something to learn about here," he said quietly. "She's given me a friend. I don't have friends here, I have associates. She's the only one who is honest about things, Roger. It is a crime to want to help her?"

"No, Adam," said Roger. "But let her decide."


End file.
